Page 85 of Fated

“Yes, you. None of us have been to New York,” Essie says, a spark of something in her pale blue eyes. It’s then I remember she’s Aaron’s grandmother, my grandma-in-law.

She doesn’t look like Aaron. She’s wrinkled, sun-browned, covered in liver spots. She’s small and hasn’t been exactly warm, but I remember how Aaron said her banana bread was the only thing that could bring him out of the water. He loves her. And Sean does too. He gave her a raspberry kiss when he saw her this morning.

“You and Robert,” Essie says, prying at the fleshy cheek of the snapper under her knife. “What did you do?”

“She had an appointment with her parents’ lawyer. For their will. You know that,” Maranda says, scowling at Essie. She pulls the gills free and I follow suit, tugging my snapper’s gills loose with a pop.

I highly doubt I had an appointment. From what Robert said, the only appointment I had was with him.

“But why was Robert there?” Essie asks, still digging at the snapper’s mouth.

Exactly.

“He was visiting friends,” Maranda says. “Becca and Robert didn’tseeeach other. They merely took the same plane.”

“They were in the same city at the same time. Of course theysaweach other.”

“It’s a big place,” Maranda says, chopping at her fish.

“Not that big.”

“Millions of people isn’t big? How would you know, Esmerelda McCormick? You’ve never left this island! You couldn’t imagine it if you tried.”

“Well!”

“Well, don’t talk about things you don’t know about. That’s what I say.”

I imagine Essie’s about to say something like, “It’s fishy,” but Dee says quietly, “Robert brought back some of the boys’ things.”

Essie and Maranda turn toward her, their argument forgotten. The sound of old grief was in Dee’s voice, like dried flowers left in the pages of a book too long. One touch and they’ll crumble.

“That’s what he was doing in New York. Jay lived there for a few months, remember? His landlord found a box when clearing out the storage unit. It wasn’t much. Jeans, T-shirts, a jar of change, that little good-luck seashell he carried with him everywhere. Robert promised he’d bring it back to me.”

Everyone is quiet. Even the gulls have ceased their shouts for scraps.

“That was good of him,” Maranda says, peering out over the sea. “Jay did love that seashell.”

It’s clear, if Essie has it now, he wasn’t carrying it with him the day of the Gulf Stream swim.

“I was thinking about giving it to Amy,” Dee says, looking out over the slate-gray waves. “Since she wants so badly to leave. She can take a bit of the island with her.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.

Essie reaches over and squeezes Dee’s arm.

Dee’s shoulders lift with a sigh and then fall. “Well,” she says briskly, staring down at the bulbous-headed fish in front of her, “I do love grouper.”

Essie hums an agreement.

“You can never get tired of eating grouper,” Maranda agrees.

Then she slices open the belly of her snapper and hooks her finger inside, dragging out the guts. I follow her motions, slicing deep and then pulling free the insides of my snapper.

My stomach churns at the slimy, gushy feel. I drop the guts into the scrap bucket. Then I lay the fish in my bucket.

I wipe my wet hands on my apron in satisfaction.

“Well done,” Maranda says, a joking light in her eyes. “You’ve done one. Five cents. That’ll get you a banana.”

---